A secret
by ceolwen
Summary: Everyone knows this particular secret already. Disclaimer: no characters are mine. I own nothing but the words. Julian Fellowes and Carnival own everything. All is good. Thanks so much for reading and reviewing - it's much appreciated!
1. Chapter 1

**May 1914**

Late spring, and he can feel his knee easing. Perhaps it was from the sun, warming his body, heating him through the black of his trousers, or maybe it was simply being released from the damp and cold of a Yorkshire winter.

Before he came Downton, he'd more likely be found sitting reading a book than not, for he is a voracious reader: from treatises on military history to the latest from the lady novelists. Indiscriminate, Anna called him, cheekily and with affection.

Ah, Anna. For Anna, he'd put away the book, and has, many times. For Anna, on his, no, _their _half-day off this month, you could hear the crunch of gravel as he made his way down the drive. Slowly, but with determination.

It was a secret. The kind of secret two people share while living under a roof with thirty others.

The kind of secret that is forged first in looks and glances. And when looks and glances are held too long, the kind of secret where they now sit side by side, (not looking, not glancing) as has become their habit. The kind of secret where fingers will be intertwined underneath the dining table. A few seconds of contentment.

The kind of secret where fingers intertwined soon ceases to be enough. It becomes the kind of secret where, in narrow halls and doorways, one brushes against the other, closer and lingering for longer than precisely necessary.

(The kind of secret everyone else knows, too.)

And so, he limps down the drive. She will leave ten minutes after, full of breezy talk about visiting her mother and father and sisters and brother in Easingwold. Knowing looks and not a few smirks will follow her.

It only takes a few minutes for her to catch him up. And, until they open the gate that leads to the forest and further, down to the Swale, they will pretend to each other that he is going to the bookstore in Ripon, and she to her Sunday lunch with her family.

She moves ahead of him, into the trees. It must be the nascent summer, for she is full of mischief today, his Anna, her dark eyes sparkling. She quickly unpins her hat, shaking her hair loose. She is lissome, young, graceful, and all for him. He is nearly undone.


	2. Chapter 2

He notices things, as she skips away from him to 'lay the table' in a clearing under the trees. Her best frock (the pretty sprigged muslin). Her corset cinched just that little bit more (as if she needed to).

The blanket is laid, the basket (a baggin, she calls it) opened to reveal sandwiches, which he has no doubt she made herself for them. They are wrapped in a sweetly embroidered white linen square. He has no doubt that it is the twin to one he even now keeps in his breast pocket, with initials AJS embroidered on one corner.

The flask contains water, for even small beer or ginger beer, he will not touch. He remembers her distress on her making this discovery during a similar outing a few months ago, and a slow smile comes to his face as he recalls the way in which he eased her mind.

"Mr Bates," she says, interrupting his reverie as he is placing the flask on the blanket, "What are you thinking?"

Ah, so she has noticed this smile of his. "Just thinking about you, Anna, and this flask."

He's got her now, noticing the flush that has crept up her neck to her cheeks. "This flask?" she asks, playing his game through her embarrassment.

"This flask, Anna, and how I kissed your tears away."

He reaches for her then, and no more is said for some time. Although there is still much unspoken, and despite both knowing there is yet too much uncertainty, they are still lovers, and it is spring, after all.

Mid-afternoon finds them watching the sky through the clearing in the trees.

"Anna," he asks her, propping himself on one elbow to watch her. "What do you want? I mean, what do you really want?"

"Oh, I don't know," she begins weakly, but seeing how earnest his eyes are, continues. "A cottage, maybe. A bairn. Aye, definitely a bairn. A garden, too. A happy family, and near my mum. Nought different than anyone wants, I should think"

"Ah, it sounds nice, Anna. A very, very nice picture. And when you have this cottage and family, and your bairn, too…may I come visit you sometime?" he asks, wistfully.

Laughing, she pulls him down to her. "You shut your mouth, John Bates!" And she shuts it for him.


	3. Chapter 3

What does one call a man who, with grim determination, decides at a single point in time to live the rest of his life with honour, despite believing that he deserves nothing; not happiness, nor contentment, nor the love of any other living creature?

Is he a tragic hero, or is he guilty of hubris? After all, God will forgive any sin but despair, since despair, a form of false pride, signifies that a person has turned his face from God, making the determination himself that he is unlovable and unforgivable.

Bates has had these moments of desperation. Before he was the recipient of Lord Grantham's benevolence (he cannot think of it any other way), he simply didn't know which way to turn. As he limped across bridges, or approached the railway tracks, he would ask, "Wouldn't it be easier," whisky fueling his thoughts, "to simply end it here?"

But there is a stubbornness about John Bates, a tenacity, a will to live. Perhaps he has been influenced by his Irish Catholic mother's theology. Perhaps the spark simply refuses to be extinguished, and caused him to rethink the terrifying disaster of his life, to envision it as something that could change. Perhaps he is just blindly obstinate.

Whatever in his psyche caused him to face the next day, and the day after that, has led him to some tenuous sense of…could it be happiness? Hope? Yes, these are definitely present. He has fought and overcome further obstacles since arriving at Downton: the pitying looks and condescension when the downstairs staff found him to be a cripple, the upstart Thomas, attempting to claw his way to the valet position, aided and abetted by Sarah O'Brien, the insolent lady's maid. But it was a position, a reasonable beginning to a respectable life, and though there are threads tying him still to his old life, he is able to make a new start.

And what an unexpected surprise for Bates, a man who bows his head in humility and sorrow in thinking of the man he is, to find such a champion in her. Plucky, well-liked, pretty, and young (oh, John Bates, she is twenty years your junior!). No man has ever had such a force behind him.

Even before war was declared, Bates was at war within himself. At night, he thinks about her picnic blanket confession, how she's woven him into her story of home, family, and children. Tendrils of his newly awakened imagination begin to swirl about. He imagines the day they get an icebox for the kitchen. The rigours of labour (how brave she is!) and the resultant squalling child in swaddling clothes. The pattern of the wallpaper, and the patina on the walnut wardrobe in their bedroom (he notes that the bed is far roomier than the narrow cots at Downton!) His desire becomes so great, and any relief he can procure so temporary, that he has finally acquiesced to something that she, the much younger and much wiser, has discovered months ago. She is "his Anna". A few months ago, convinced of the hopelessness of his own case, he would have made some attempt, no matter how half-hearted, to discard that seemingly unshakeable possessive.

But now, rivals like Molesley will need to contend with him if they wish to get close to her. He has lost the battle with himself, and now needs to fight another one to give her what should be a simple dream.

It is a grey August morning in 1914. The world is uncertain, war has begun. And John Bates realizes that he must find the greatest evidence of his failure as a human being: his wife.

* * *

_Thanks for your reviews, everyone. No clue how this is going to turn out, but I'll enjoy writing it if you enjoy reading it._


	4. Chapter 4

As the summer drew to a close, and the family abandoned a London Season to which they had merely paid lip-service, it became apparent that Downton was suffering from an affliction which had gripped most of the nation.

Nearly everyone was preoccupied with the war, and the efforts to pretend otherwise, at first valiant, became half-hearted. Needing the distraction, the Dowager Countess, Lady Violet Crawley, had returned from London with a chic new lady's maid bent on shaking Her Ladyship out of outré garments too reminiscent of the _fin de siècle_ and into a new modishness more befitting the modern woman of 1914.

Thomas, unctuous as always, was the first to leave, emboldened by the notion that he'd not be cannon fodder, as he was destined for far greater things. Jokes about Thomas, that great "healer of the sick", became a common and much-bandied about theme in the servants' hall, though O'Brien still took offence even after repeated iterations of this knee-slapper.

William, determination showing in the set of his jaw, enlisted in late August, amidst a flurry of tears shed by Daisy, who could later be found sobbing in Mrs. Patmore's arms. (It seems that the indefatigable Mrs. Patmore found comfort herself in comforting Daisy, for her sons had joined up). It seemed that daily, footmen turned in their livery, and along with grooms, stable boys, gardeners, and tenant farmers, collected and sent their wages to mothers and sisters, and enlisted in the Green Howards. They were fast on the heels of Mr. Matthew Crawley, who had parted bitterly from Mary in the summer, and had enlisted straight away. Lord Grantham had raised Bates' pay, so while he continued as valet, he also took on some duties of the former steward, who was killed at Mons in August.

By October, the pretence that Downton could go on as it always had, was entirely given up. Mr Carson's comment about needing a maid in the dining room had, much to his chagrin, proven prescient. Everything was going topsy-turvy, and The Order of Things could no longer be given its due. To replace the men who had enlisted, Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes had no choice but to hire women. It was a difficult proposition, since many women from the neighbouring towns had gone to work as 'munitionettes', as they were known, in factories that were springing up all over Yorkshire.

It was a grim day for Mrs Hughes when she turned the key, permanently unlocking the door that divided the women's quarters from the men's. The separation of sexes, one of her most firmly held principles, could not be enforced any longer.

Of course, this announcement, made with extreme displeasure on Mrs Hughes' part, resulted in a tiny, nearly unnoticeable, erotic _frisson_ for Anna. Her secret shiver, of course, was noticed by Mr Bates, who did not welcome the announcement of the unbarred door. No, he did not welcome it at all.

For during many nights, over the last few months, Mr Bates could be heard pacing, the dull tapping of a cane on floorboards accompanying his slow footsteps. The insomnia of such nights left him grey and bleary, slower than usual. No one thought it amiss, since almost everyone had their minds firmly elsewhere. But Anna felt both his tension and his rebuff, for her gentle questions went unanswered.

They had crossed a threshold of sorts. While no promises had been made, both had declared their feelings. She made her profession fervently on the road to the Ripon fair, and he had echoed her one evening as they sat in the servants' yard, enjoying the ever-diminishing moments of free time left to them. She had risen to go in, but he had grabbed her wrist, pulling her back down to him. Near silently, he whispered to her, "I love you, Anna Smith."

(She can still recall the feeling of his mouth, warm and soft, on her ear).

It has been eight weeks and four days since this pronouncement, and in the moments when she has time to settle down to consider it, Anna thinks she is going out of her mind. She alternates between jubilation (he loves me) and despair (he loves me not). And she is scared. For her brothers have enlisted, as have all the boys with whom she went to school. Gwen, her confidante, has gone too. And, with dread foreboding, she knows that Bates, despite his injury and more, will go where Lord Grantham, hale and hearty, will go.

Mrs Hughes has known Anna since she was a baby and knows her for a constant girl, a girl of good character, intelligence, and sense. Of course, Mrs Hughes knows Anna's secret heart, sees her feelings flit across her face, and understands her with compassion, not judgment. And perhaps Mrs Hughes knows that Anna will remain chaste until her wedding day. Or perhaps Mrs Hughes knows something about John Bates' steadfast sense of honour. Or perhaps, a bit more uncharitably, Mrs Hughes might be playing the serpent, offering up the forbidden fruit to Anna. You see, it is unquestionably remarked upon, (with pointed looks, titters, raised eyebrows, and a subtle cough—from Carson) when Mrs Hughes, determined to preserve The Order of Things, puts Anna and O'Brien in the nearly deserted mens' quarters: Anna next to Bates.

And so, one night, as we could expect, Anna hears Bates' tap-tap-tap on the floor in the room next to hers, and determines to go to him, wearing nothing but a lawn nightgown* with a shawl covering it, to ease him however she may do so. And Bates, hearing what could only be her soft knock, admits her into his room.

They stand very, very close together, in fear of being overheard, and thus discovered. Despite herself, Anna's teeth chatter at the chill and proximity (and perhaps the foreknowledge of what she is about to do).

"Tell me what is wrong," she pleads. "Or tell me if I shouldn't…"

"I have told you I am not a free man," he responds. Her eyes fill with tears.

"I don't care," she says, trying not to let the tears spill over.

"I do, but I'll try to make it right." With that, he embraces her. She draws the shawl around him, for he is shaking, too.

* * *

_*A lawn nightgown in October? I wondered at Anna's choice of sleepwear, dear reader. I thought it very odd indeed._


	5. Chapter 5

They clung together like that for what seemed like hours, until feet were numb and cold. Silently padding, his limp pronounced without his cane, he led her back to her room.

_(She slept that night knowing more of what it was to have a man she loved love her, and woke in the morning with her arms slung around her pillow, returning the heated kisses he'd given her that night into a feather-and-ticking substitute)._

But full awakening chased away the fantasies of night, and as usual, there was much work to be done. Down in the servants' hall they breakfasted, gathered with the others.

"You two look a bit…out of sorts," O'Brien commented. "Like you haven't slept a wink," she continued. Anna's retort was interrupted by Mr Carson's arrival. In unison, the servants rose upon his entry. Mr Carson dispensed the duties for the day, the papers, and the mail for both upstairs and downstairs.

"One for you, Bates," Carson rumbled.

Bates took the envelope, opened it, and without a word, sharply left the servants' hall, Anna on his heels.

"What is it, Mr Bates?" she asked, concern showing in her eyes. He handed her the envelope. She opened it and withdrew a single white feather. "But—," she exclaimed.

"I'm no coward, Anna," he said, implacably. "I have been many things. But never that."

"I know, Mr Bates," she said. "Who would send such a thing? We haven't heard from Thomas in months, and I doubt Miss O'Brien would do this on her own, not when she could just cut you down with her tongue."

"It is a message," he replied, putting his hands on her shoulders, not caring who would see. "From my wife."

Anna, whose righteous indignation had sustained her until that moment, felt his words as if they had been a blow leveled straight across her face.

Who is the woman, she thought, with that claim upon him? What had transpired between them to render him thus, white-faced and sombre? It had been many years since he'd seen her: that she knew. Distance, anger, gaol, and drink had separated them. Underneath John Bates' stolid honour, below his steadfast determination to do things properly, lay bitterness and self-loathing. Anna, looking into his eyes, saw this finally unveiled. Why did he blame himself so much? As her ma often said, "It takes two to make a bargain."

His words came back to her. _Dream of a better man._ "There is no better man for me, John Bates." she said. "You remember that."


	6. Chapter 6

Further changes affected the household that day. Lord Grantham was raging outwardly, but inwardly, was clenched with fear. Sybil, under Cousin Isobel's care, had decided to train as a nurse at Swinton Grange. Isobel had arranged for lodgings there, and was to serve as nurse-instructor. Lord Grantham, appalled, was fighting his youngest and most favoured child's implacability. Tempered by the knowledge that Isobel, whose counsel and good sense he had come to trust, was to serve as chaperone, he came round, but the house was unsettled.

The Dowager Countess had come by to visit with the family, accompanied by Mrs Brown, the lady's maid she had deemed so essential to have elevated into her companion. Lady Violet was, of course, dismayed at Sybil's radical tendencies, but perhaps her sorrow at losing Sybil (to a profession best suited to skivvies and girls from the workhouse) was tempered by the fact that her rival, Isobel, would no longer be providing such continual challenges to the rightful pecking order in the henhouse that was Downton.

Branson, too, had enlisted that day, and was to serve in the 16th Division, leaving the house without a chauffeur. "May that socialist be damned," Lord Grantham roared.

The library was dusty, Bates noticed, as he sat with a somewhat dyspeptic Lord Grantham to review the week's list of things to manage on the estate. There were no longer enough people about to keep up appearances. Even the girls had to With Isobel's remove from the house she and Matthew had occupied, there were two additional members of staff who would join the big house: Mrs Bird and Molesley. Mrs Bird was a complication, and they did not discuss how she would best be mobilised to serve, but Molesley was a prize of sorts, for he could serve as footman and chauffeur. Too old to enlist, he would be valuable at Downton, and perhaps Carson's offended sensibilities regarding maids in the dining room could finally be placated.

(Despite his respect for the man, knowing that Molesley cherished a _tendresse_ for Anna made Bates' teeth clench somewhat. It was not a good day).

That night, Anna gave in. Silent tears ran down her cheeks, giving way to huge, heaving sobs. Mrs Hughes, hearing her, stole in, and gently comforted her. Despite her prohibitions on followers, as young men attempting to attach themselves to the maids were known, Mrs Hughes saw the depth of feeling on both sides. She had no doubts that Lord Grantham, as loyal in his way to Bates as Bates was to him, would not be troubled by this particular union. The Order of Things was upset, and much as she and Mr Carson would like to put it back together and return to the way it was before, they both realised that there had been a fundamental shift. Another soft click, and Mrs Hughes was alerted to Bates' arrival in the room. Startled, he moved to go, but she motioned him forward. He sat upon the bed and gathered Anna up in his arms.

Mrs Hughes had never experienced any such intimacy as she saw between these two, never been held as tenderly, not even as a child. Feeling suddenly like an accidental intruder in a scene she was never meant to witness, she left them be.

(Her heart was pounding as she made her way back to her room, and she experienced a twinge: was it longing? Was it envy?)

Never mind all that, Elsie Hughes, she thought. Those two need to settle things.

And Bates, rocking Anna on his lap as if she were a child, made her giggle through her tears when he whispered, "So Mrs Hughes is human after all!"


	7. Chapter 7

Molesley had settled into his new duties. Much like Daisy had with Thomas, his eyes followed an albeit unknowing Anna as she went about her day. It was not long until he was able to root out the truth: during that garden party, months ago, Mr Bates had been speaking about himself when he sketched out Anna's admirer to Molesley.

Molesley felt a bit like a chump, a feeling he seemed to often have. Bemused. He couldn't figure it out. What was Bates thinking? Molesley himself was no spring chicken, but Bates had five or more years on him. Molesley kept himself thin and fit (_fighting trim, but he suppressed that thought. His father needed him_), Bates was heavy, stolid, lame.

It wasn't right, somehow. He watched her, looking for the natural pity Anna must have felt and convinced herself was the blossoming of love. She became more beautiful to him, lithe, always busy. A ready smile at her lips.

At the dinner table in the servants' hall, Molesley's watchfulness progressed into voyeurism. He'd watch her head bow demurely when Bates murmured something to her, watch her lean toward him, cocking her head nearly imperceptibly to catch his _sotto voce_ comment. Or, in the rare cases where they found themselves seated opposite one another, Molesley would watch Bates staring at her, watch her looking up, flushing, and coyly return his glances.

Molesley would drop forks, napkins, and papers, in order to sneak surreptitious glances under the table, finding their feet touching, their fingers intertwined, and once, Bates' hand upon her thigh.

He watched her lips parting as Bates spoke to her, her tongue moistening her bottom lip (and he watched Bates watching this, too). He watched Bates in the doorway on a Sunday, helping Anna on with her coat, and leading her outside to church, his hand lightly resting for a moment low in the small of her back.

He watched them, chattering, move through narrow halls close together (the halls weren't that narrow). He saw her touch his forearm several times, as if to punctuate the points she was making, Bates' hand (_accidentally?)_ grazing her breast as they parted.

He saw them hang back from the others when they were walking, and watched Bates smooth a tendril of hair that had escaped her bun, away from her face, watched her tilt her head and thus signal Bates to bring his lips down upon hers.

_He burns with the shame of watching_.

Sometimes Molesley hears irregular footfalls moving softly and furtively down the hall of the servants' quarters, late at night. He can't bear it, the idea that such a beautiful young woman is victimized by such a poor excuse for an admirer. Everything points to Anna returning Bates' affection, but why? How? What power does Bates have on her? How has the poor girl confused pity with love? He imagines himself her rescuer, bursting in upon them, shoving Bates off, pulling her frightened form free, and sheltering her, her nightclothes shredded by the brute.

But instead, on nights like these, when Bates has gone to Anna, Molesley pulls the pillow over his head, wishing it were not so. But his curiosity overcomes his revulsion, and he moves close to the wall, listening for low voices, which he, on occasion, hears….and then he stills his breath and heart, listening for the telltale rhythmic creak of springs, or stifled cries of passion, which he does not.


	8. Chapter 8

The nightly visits Bates made to Anna accomplished a dual purpose: one of which Molesley was entirely ignorant, and one, of course, which he suspected. During these brief nocturnal visits, Bates and Anna were trying to formulate a plan.

The white feather had unsettled him.

"How did she know you were here?" Anna had asked him.

"I suppose she always knew I'd come here," was his answer. It did not satisfy her. In fact, many questions bubbled up, but she held her tongue, knowing Bates would tell her in his own time. "The hard part is not that she knows where I am, but finding where she is," he said. "And finding out what game she's playing now."

"How?" she asked. "How will you find her, and what will you do?"

"I'll find her. I'll start in London." She looked stricken. (_The wife, with legal claim on him, with knowledge of his history and body that she did not have_). "Don't worry," he said, a twinkle in his eye. "I won't go to gaol for her again."

At that she started giggling, partly in relief, for Bates had never before joked about the sentence he had served for this undeserving other. He shushed her in the way he found most effective, tangling his hands in her hair and bringing his mouth to hers.

Molesley started out of bed, hearing the laughter, and he moved swiftly into position, ear on wall. Was that a moan he caught? A sigh? His fists clenched involuntarily.

Much to Molesley's relief, Bates left soon after. It was becoming difficult for him to do so. That the desire he felt was returned and magnified by her served to quicken his pulse until he felt the blood roaring in his ears. It was funny, Bates mused later. His devotion to Anna bordered on the holy, for he truly believed himself an unworthy supplicant, begging access to her body and her soul. Yet how could the carnal co-exist so readily with the hallowed? She knew his flaws, or most of them, if not his stories. Accepted them, and him. And although he could not receive this gift, not without trying his best to unshackle himself from his marriage, she (a pious girl, even) would take him with or without the legal state of matrimony as accompaniment.

Bates does not want to take the easy path, but he does not judge her for this. It is common in the country for men and women to carry on with the business of living, despite the obstacles thrown in their way. Proud Bates. He knows her for a virgin and intends to keep her thus until their wedding night (_it is both secret joy and pain to think of this_), despite her best efforts to convince him otherwise.

* * *

One morning , after Bates and Lord Grantham were closeted in the library, ruminating on estate business, a package arrived for Lord Grantham. This package disrupted their discussion, which was an unhappy one, as they had both concluded that there could be no way to keep the house open in its entirety: the family would need to remove to a single wing and make do with certain of the principal rooms on the ground floor. Lord Grantham accepted this inevitability. Without the proper complement of staff, the house simply could not function. So the arrival of the package, brought straight in by Carson, who took it from a breathless lad on a bicycle from the village post office, was a welcome distraction.

From the War Office, it was a small package, a brown stiff cardboard box, and it contained two items. The first was an official letter. News of its contents spread rapidly to Downton's inhabitants, both upstairs and downstairs.

It exonerated Bates, reversed his court-martial and dishonourable discharge, and restored his army pension and medals of valour hard-won in the Boer war. He sat, unable to speak, unable to meet Lord Grantham's eyes.

"It was the least I could do, Bates."

"No, milord. You know I don't deserve it. You know what I was."

"Bates…everyone…makes errors. I have never told you, but I am sorry for mine."

They were silent for a time, until Lord Grantham's eyes were drawn to the second letter in the box.

* * *

_She stood there, in front of his chair, his frame wracked by sobs. She was no observer at the door this time, unable to offer him but the scantest comfort. She held him, his face pressed into her belly, her hands in his hair._

"It's erased, then," she asked, later. "Your record."

"Erased in history, he said, "though my body will certainly never be the same."

He pushed his sleeve up his arm. And there she saw it.

Two letters.

B C

"What's it mean?" she asked.

"Bad character. The army does not tolerate stepping out of line."

"But it wasn't your —"

He takes her hand and guides it to his lame leg, settling her palm upon his knee. She feels it there, all jagged and horrible, and turns to him.

"Kneecapping. The army does not tolerate stepping out of line."

Her eyes filled with tears, and when she kisses him, it is gentle, soft.

He breaks away. "Don't pity me. I told you—"

"I don't, John Bates. You bloody well know I don't."


	9. Chapter 9

And then he told her about the contents of the second letter, unprepared for the strength of her reaction.

They would be going to France, he and Lord Grantham. On the morrow.

She was bewildered. "But how? You can't…your leg."

"Not in active combat. Intelligence. His Lordship's been recalled. He'll be colonel, and I'm to serve under him. I won't be at the front."

"It's dangerous, even so."

"It's what I have to do."

"But…they hurt you. They branded you, John. And you'll go back?"

"They did not. It never happened. Don't you see? It never happened. This tattoo, the bullet in my knee. They don't admit to this. It did not happen. Of course they can't put me at the front. But that's not what they want anyway. They need men. All sorts. For all kinds of things."

It is agony. It would be kinder for him to slap her, to shock her out of her hysteria, but he cannot bring himself to do it. (Oh John, when did you become so kind?)

She cries into his chest, and reaches for him, then, to drive away her fear.

_Let him kiss me with the kisses of his mouth_

She embraces him; sees his eyes, half-closed as if he drowses.

_Thy lips __are__ like a thread of scarlet_

And he knows he must pay her price for going.

_His left hand is under my head, his right doth embrace me_

He is above her, his weight upon her.

_I held him and would not let him go_

They are together.

_This __is__ my beloved, and this __is__ my friend_

And he knows the truth of his own false pride, the folly of trying to inscribe the laws of men onto inexorable nature. It is a canticle, and will be sung endlessly in a liturgy older than mankind. Call it love, call it lust, call it an imperative of human biology, call it folly, call it what you will. Like fire, it cannot be truly tamed or brought to heel. In times of war, pestilence, famine, drought: life must be affirmed.

_I am my beloved's and my beloved is mine_

They move together. Locked.

_O thou fairest among women_

They have cannibalized the beds, moving sheets and blankets onto the floor.

_I sleep, but my heart waketh_

In the early morning, they lie uncovered, revealing themselves to each other. The chill of the floorboards is held at bay by the blankets beneath them. He, who has never seen her hair unplaited and fanned out onto his chest, sees her youth, the strength—gained from years of labour—under her skin. She, who has never seen a man uncovered, sees the wound in his thigh, sustained by a Boer's bayonet, sees the scarred-over bullethole in his knee. She is a little afraid to look much beyond that. She kisses the underside of his wrist, the letters B and C beneath her mouth, and before she can grow cold, he covers her again.

_(Molesley stands rigid beside them, physically kept out by a thin coating of plaster and lathe. A lamb to slaughter, he thinks. A lamb. Tears trickle down his face. Later on, Mrs Hughes will put his arm in a sling, for he's brought his fist down so hard against the oak bureau in his room that his hand has swollen to twice its normal size. He knows he won't be able to face Anna or Bates in the servants' hall; one look has told him so, for her movements are languid at breakfast, her face relaxed despite red-rimmed eyes. Tell-tale)._

_

* * *

_

_A/N: the rather poetic discourse italicized and interspersed throughout this chapter (save for the last bit about poor Molesley) is from the Song of Songs. Appropriate, I thought._


	10. Chapter 10

The spirit has fled the house.

All day, Anna and Daisy and Mrs Hughes move about the rooms like shepherds, herding what will be needed into the wing the family will now shrink into. They cover furniture, close flues, shutter windows.

They are a silent trio. Everyone is upset. Anna's face is sallow and drawn, her eyes red-rimmed. In odd moments, she starts, thinking she heard the sound of Bates' cane. In these moments of drudgery, she has too much time to think. Her mind wanders, recollecting the salt of his skin as she kisses him, the hum of his breath when he sleeps. And darker thoughts intervene, for she has heard horror stories of France: trenches, shelling, gas. But he has not gone to fight, she chides herself, for he is too old and too lame: then she chides herself again for defining the things that pain him most to the shields that will protect him. To think of his imperfections feels disloyal.

And still, they work. The labour seems endless. The house turned upside down. Lady Violet retrenches from the dower house, with her maid-turned-companion, for the dower house will be shut as well. The family's women will share one roof, circling wagons in troubled times.

Mrs Hughes, seeing Anna's state, asks her to see to Mrs Brown, Lady Violet's maid cum companion. What an interesting woman, Anna thinks. A sort of double figure, for she belongs downstairs, but also upstairs, moving in between like a chameleon. It can't be easy, Anna thinks, flashing her a kind smile as she helps the woman get settled in the room just off Lady Violet's. It's a small room, but it is one of the rooms in the family wing: not an attic room like a servant would be given. The woman, Mrs Brown, is handsome, fortyish, but whose strong features still retain their attractiveness. She is chic, after the Paris fashion. Far nicer-looking than O'Brien, who is still dowdy and plain despite this woman's best attempts to suggest a new mode to her. O'Brien herself has nothing but the highest respect for Mrs Brown. They have met before, and O'Brien, usually sharp-tongued and, since the summer, positively gloomy, pronounced Mrs Brown to be an affable woman, pretty and stylish. The woman's voice is tuneful, melodious. She is a perfect lady's companion, Anna thinks, knowing she herself would never be like that: chic and stylish – she hasn't got the constitution for it. But perhaps, Anna thinks, Mrs Brown's attractiveness is tempered by eyes that are a little too busy, too avid, searching everywhere. _(She recalls Bates' shining eyes gazing on her last night, as he gave himself to her, and thinks of nothing beyond that for a little while). _With a start_,_ she realizes that Mrs Brown, herself tired and hungry, is speaking to her.

"Thank you, Anna. It is indeed a pretty room."

"I'm glad you like it, Mrs. Brown. I'll have a tray brought up to you directly."

And everyone she passes, she sees, is sad like she is. Lady Cora is quiet and grim. Some, like Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes are very kind to her, a sure sign of their concern for Bates. Molesley is all concern for her, looking to Anna like he spent a sleepless night as well. Lady Mary is feeling sorry for herself, since the post has again brought no word from Matthew, and Lady Edith sulks because Anna could not focus well enough to do her hair. All the household, however, feels a shared sense of fear for Lord Grantham.

Anna, with both the joyous remembrance of Bates' body on hers and the ineffable sadness arising from his departure, sits in the servants' hall before tea, alone. Worried for Bates, worried for Lord Grantham, thoughts echoed by all as they filtered in to join her.

The new woman, Mrs Brown, joined them. She was to eat with the family ordinarily, but tonight, a neighbouring family had joined them for what must have been a very gloomy dinner, so Mrs Brown was relegated to downstairs. Again, Anna was struck by the woman's handsomeness, and how her eyes darted over everything. O'Brien wasted no opportunity in starting in on Anna, perceiving her vulnerability and looking to show off in front of her new friend. Miles away _(Anna felt the echo of his mouth, marking her left collarbone)_, she paid scant attention.

"Anna's usually so cheerful, Mrs Brown. She must be missing her fancy man," O'Brien said. Anna did look up at that, and gave O'Brien a withering glance.

"That's enough, O'Brien," said Mrs Hughes.

"Quite right," said Mr Carson.

_(Oh, to have allies)_

"All right, all right. I take it we're not to mention Mr Bates at all then," said O'Brien, sneering at Anna.

"Enough," said Mr Carson.

"Quite right," said Mrs Hughes, provoking everyone's laughter at their reversal.

Anna, looking up then, found herself very disconcerted.

For Mrs Brown's eyes had stilled.

And they had focused on her.

In that glance, which lasted but a few seconds, but felt like an eternity, Anna realized something, and grew very cold.

For Anna knew, in that instant, that she was looking into the eyes of her lover's wife.


	11. Chapter 11

Anna stood in front of the little mirror on her chest of drawers that night, a single candle illuminating the left side of her face, leaving the right side dark.

Who was looking back at her?

The night before, she had been John Bates' friend and lover. They had crossed a threshold, nature making haste and taking its opportunity in the face of war and separation.

But this room was now devoid of his presence. Anna had made the beds and scrubbed the sheets out with white soap, as if she were Lady Macbeth. But in this case, there was no murder, she reminded herself. Guilt began to overshadow remembered pleasure.

And now, she stood, looking at herself, looking beyond herself. The moment when Mrs Brown, or Mrs Bates, or whoever she was, had finally stilled her eyes and looked at Anna had been terrifying, though it had gone no further. Here, within the walls of Downton, was the bodily proof of Anna's shame. This was the woman he had wed. Anna wonders what their wedding was like: a young and whole John Bates plighting his troth to this woman. Vera. She imagines him, eyes shining with love for this handsome, fashionable woman. Her fantasies are so vivid that she can almost fancy she smells the linseed-oil polished pews, hear their vows echo off high, old, Norman stone walls. She feels the minister's benediction, hears his pronunciation of holy wedlock, the shining rings each places upon the other's finger.

And she imagines the wedding breakfast, their families gathered round. John's lovely Irish mother miffed at an Anglican service, thinking up paces to put her new daughter-in-law through.

She watches further into the evening. The laughing couple, fortified by food and drink, takes their leave of their guests. A cab or some conveyance brings them to their lodgings. He takes her hand, and they run up the stairs. He fumbles with the buttons on her dress. They are overcome by passion.

Anna is crying, feeling that her night with Bates, the consummation of long-borne love, was in truth some grotesque parody, a wedding night without bride or bridegroom. Snuffing out the candle, she lies down in her bed, wracked by sobs. Mercifully, sleep comes for her.

(_Molesley hears the barely muffled sobs, but can do nothing for her except rue, on her behalf, the day Bates took the place of valet to Lord Grantham. Of course she's crying. Of course regret ensues when one realizes how awful it all is, how sordid. He wonders what happened earlier, for he saw something take place between the new companion to Lady Grantham and Anna. It was but a moment, but he saw that something had shaken her to the core.)_

Downstairs, Vera Bates, née Brown, paces like a caged animal until stopped abruptly by a coughing fit. How dare he, she thinks, perched on the edge of her bed. She is indignant. How could John Bates and this maid…no, it must be wrong. Somehow it must be wrong. He is a coward, the basest, vilest of cowards. And the maid is so young. And kind, and spirited—Ah, she is spirited, Vera muses, so perhaps there is a grain of truth to it after all.

* * *

_Sorry for the delays in updating: more coming soon once a few things are worked out. Your reviews are lovely, and I thank you for the ongoing encouragement and readership. - CK_


	12. Chapter 12

It is November, and the frost crunches under Anna's feet as she walks to Ripon to post the letters. Letters to soldiers, she thinks. Soldiers, solicitors, bills, newspapers. How many advertisements have Mr Carson and Lady Cora, in His Lordship's absence, written? How many places advertised, and even still, Downton was bleeding both cash and the men and women who worked there. Wages had trebled, almost overnight, and yet hardly a body could be found to work.

Anna is tired. The wages have trebled, but so has the work. In the beginning, tempers frayed, then everyone mucked in and grew calmer, except perhaps O'Brien, whose grumbles about her troubles grew more vicious, if not more vocal. Even Lady Mary and Lady Edith are pitching in, when they've not pitched battle, for the sisters' animosity towards each other has grown stronger.

She posts the letters. There isn't one for Mr Bates. She has written it, and three others, and they lie in the top drawer of her bureau, sealed, unsent. Ink- and tear-stained, unblotted, these four letters are much of a muchness. An outpouring of her feelings. Self-recrimination, self-reproach. All the vulnerability in the world, scrabbled onto paper.

Anna has reached a sort of uneasy peace with Vera Brown, in the sense that their discovery of one another has resulted in a shared shock. Mostly she tries to stay out of Vera's way and notice, since Anna feels that any more revelatory insights into the woman will result in the crumbling of the protective wall _(eggshell-thin)_ she's built within her mind. And at this point, Anna mostly just wishes to survive.

But that peace is tentative, and three days later shatters with the shrill ring of the telephone.

"Downton Abbey. This is Carson, the butler, speaking," says Mr Carson in stentorian tones.

It is Lord Grantham. O'Brien fetches Lady Grantham and the family clusters around the telephone in the hall. News passes from Lord Grantham's mouth to Lady Grantham's ear, and from Lady Grantham's mouth to her daughters and her mother-in-law.

"They are safe. They are in London."

"They are coming back on Saturday. A brief time. Three days' leave. Perhaps a week. No more than that."

Lady Mary, the strain in her voice causing it to break, implores her mother to ask, "What of Matthew? Ask Papa if he's heard from Matthew!" Cora takes Mary's hand, and shakes her head.

_(No one is watching Edith, else they would see her turning away, her face twisted into a sneer. No one speaks to her, else they would be on the receiving end of a particularly caustic remark)_

The call is over. News soon percolates downstairs, and everyone redoubles his or her efforts in order that Lord Grantham be welcomed back to Downton properly.

In this part of the world, it is the case that friends and neighbours, sweethearts and brothers have gone, and will never return. Though there has been no talk of danger, and though Lord Grantham has assured his family and his staff that he goes not to the front, absences are borne more reluctantly. Returns are happy circumstances, enhanced by new gratitude. It is this spirit which permeates Downton now.

Anna's breath catches in her throat, at once excited and fearful. She has not warned Bates, and it is too late now. A hand catches her elbow.

"A word with you, Anna?" asks Mrs Brown. It is her hand on Anna's arm.

"Yes, of course, Mrs Brown," says Anna, heart pounding in her throat.

They are seated in her room, for it is one of the only private areas in the house. Caught as she is between upstairs and downstairs, Mrs Brown's room is a no man's land. Only Lady Violet feels ease in entering it, other than Mrs Brown herself, and Lady Violet along with the others, is busy dreaming up homecoming ideas.

_(Molesley watches Anna go into Mrs Brown's room, concerned. There is something not quite right about the woman, and since her arrival, Anna has looked worried and pale)_

They are silent, for minutes, it seems. Anna looks around the room, at the familiar polished wardrobes, at the wallpaper and the bed. The room smells different, an unplaceable scent – it must be hers.

"You're his wife," Anna begins.

"And you're his lover," Mrs Brown continues. Anna starts up, knocking the chair over. Mrs Brown grasps her hand—

And Molesley walks in.

"I'm sorry. I heard a noise. I thought you were ill, Mrs Brown."

"It was just the chair, Mr Molesley. It fell over," Mrs Brown replies. "Thank you for your concern."

"Anna, Mrs Hughes was looking for you," Mr Molesley continues.

Anna nods, leaves the room in front of Mr Molesley, and practically flees down to the safety of Mrs Hughes' pantry.

_(Molesley fixes the woman, Mrs Bates, he now knows, with a stare worthy of the basilisk gaze of the Dowager Countess. His nose wrinkles as he takes in the scent in the room: it is not unplaceable at all for him. She returns his gaze, steadily and defiantly)_


	13. Chapter 13

Molesley thinks of his father and of his mother, thinks of his return from London a few years ago. He hadn't ever intended to stay in the North, but circumstances, rather than one's desires, often dictate where one ends up.

He remembers his father's terse note to him, stating the nature of his mother's illness. His father's note: Molesley had only ever received letters from his mother. Her cursive expressiveness and elegance replaced by his block letters. Words formed from these letters, words from a man who worked with his hands, with flowers and gardens and soil. Never words.

And when he returned home, he returned for her funeral. He'd missed the last goodbye, her hand holding his, skin stretched over bone. He'd missed her face, sunken and drawn with pain. Perhaps it was a blessing, his father said. But he saw his father's eyes, he saw the magnitude of his father's burden reflected in the way he'd become old, seemingly overnight, the last of the dark hair giving way to white. The creases deepening on his father's forehead. Yes, it was a blessing for him, but it was no relief for his father.

Molesley had missed his mother's death, by a day or two, but the smell of death lingered in the downstairs parlour, which had become her room. He'd smelled the cancer which killed her, he'd smelled the roses which his father took pains to keep fresh in her room. "Summat nice to look at," he could imagine his father saying. He smelled the laudanum, supplied by the doctor, to keep the pain at bay. Small sips of opium, to keep her dancing on the edge of madness instead of being fully consumed by it, swallowed up by the unhinging nature of ravaging pain.

It was this peculiar, unmistakably pungent smell that Molesley's fine nose picked up from Mrs Brown's room.

Mrs. Brown, he ruminated. Mrs Bates…for, of course, he'd heard the exchange between the two of them. For a moment, he felt guilty. Listening at keyholes was hardly his style. Yet he had been listening subversively now for months, he chided himself. Maybe it was his style. Ah, no matter, he reflected, for it enabled him to save Anna.

_(But from what was he saving her?)_

It took Molesley little more than the trip downstairs to decide what to do. The laudanum was a concern. Mrs Brown did not look sick, which meant that she was most than likely dependent on opium. He would tell Mr Carson. Mr Carson would know what to do, how to broach such a delicate subject to the family.

* * *

Anna thinks of Bates' return, as her busy fingers fly over some mending. Two days hence. She is nervous, fearful, and feels a sense of ever-growing shame. Even so, her heart tries to tamp down these feelings, for there is a significant part of her that knows, whatever else may be, John Bates loves her alone of all women. She holds the words of the letter she had received ten days prior, _(the sole letter she has ever received from him)_ in her mind. Superlatives: she is dearest. Longing: he misses her. Tenderness: she is most loved. Hope: he will return, and soon. A benison: God bless her and keep her. Lebewohl, Abwesenheit, Wiedersehen.

_(She wonders whether it will be the sole letter she will ever receive from him)_

Anna's fear stems largely from the unpredictability of what Bates' sense of honour might cause him to do. His ability to abase himself, to deny himself – oh, she knows the hold his sense of honour has on him. She has borne witness to his struggle and has seen him overcome it, but not without considerable effort. A month ago, Anna would have thought that the most difficult thing she has ever had to do was to watch him deny himself her love, to hold her at bay in honour's name, to push away what was certainly not lightly offered. _(But in the end, he failed at that, and thus prevailed_) And now she knows that the situation of this entanglement is much more difficult. This is no longer a man and a woman, but a man and a woman and another woman and another man _(for she has seen now the look in Molesley's eyes for what it is)_.

Anna thinks of Bates' return, and comforts herself with simple facts: he is safe, and he is coming home.


	14. Chapter 14

He feels sleep coming to claim him, the noise and rocking motion of the train rhythmically lulling him into slumber. He is physically drained, more fatigued than he has been in many years.

Ah, but jubilant as well. To be useful again, truly useful. To be in the company of men, men who wanted what he had to offer. Men who had become, in recent months, so used to seeing injury and dismemberment that his limp was a nothing, his cane a mere accessory.

It was a rushed journey, a swift ride across the channel to France. For there had been an 'interesting development', and it was Bates, not Lord Grantham, who was truly necessary to this cause.

Bates remembers, as he dozes. He is lying on his stomach, on a rocky hill. He has eked out a flat space and waits, the hot African sun baking him through his shirt, the skin of his neck burning and blistered, sweat pooling under his belly and in the small of his back. His lips are cracked. Scored. An Englishman not suited to this climate, like many other Englishman. His eyes, trained on a distant farmhouse, searching for movement. Other eyes keeping watch, keeping him safe. They have long since stopped wondering how it is he can see the tiny flickers of movement so far away.

The minutest twitch of a curtain. They are within. Only Bates knows. Only Bates can see. The others take it on blind faith.

_(Heart slows. Breath stills. Eyes focus.)_

Hands feel smooth wood beneath them, caress the rifle smoothly, like a lover. There is a moment when all movement in the world ceases, and then there is the crack of the rifle. Sometimes there is a volley of shots returned. Sometimes there is nothing. Every time he lines up the target, every time he sights it, however, someone dies.

Sometimes it is a Boer farmer, the enemy fighter they've sought out. Sometimes it is his wife. Sometimes it is his child. It is hard, this. They do not seek to kill the women or the children, but they must burn the farmhouses, slaughter the animals, and take the survivors back to refugee camps. These camps, concentration camps, are no better than prisons: dirty, disease-ridden, overcrowded, tent prisons.

There is a purity in what he does, a detachment. After all, the distance is so great from the sharpshooter to his victim. But there is nothing pure or honourable in destroying a farm, poisoning the wells, dragging defiant widows and crying children to concentration camps. Every time his company does this, a little piece of him detaches further. For a while, one can forget horror in a whore, and when the whores are not enough, in drink.

Eventually, the loud crack of a rifle, the slamming of a door, the boom of artillery, well, it's all the same to Bates. At first he blinks. The blink becomes a wince. The wince becomes a sharp intake of breath. And it is time to go home. His eyes are as good as ever, but his nerves are shot.

The King's South Africa medal is pinned on John Bates and he is back home. Looking for work, looking for a woman.

* * *

Bates shifts in his sleep, remembering the odd crossing from Dover to Calais: just four weeks ago. He, Lord Grantham, a man from the Press Office with an odd name: Hex, and two other unnamed gentlemen spent about eighteen hours on the French side, waiting for something. No one would say what. And then it arrived, and they were off. Back on ship. From London to France and back again.

Something so precious that it took two shadowy figures, an earl and his valet, and a press officer to go to France to collect it.

Lord Grantham takes up his post at the War Office, remaining in London, Bates to join him in due course. The two still unnamed men, Hex Prichard, and John Bates journey by train to a remote army base in Suffolk. Only Hex is in uniform, as a press officer. It is an odd company.

It is mounted on a Lee Enfield rifle, and it is something John Bates has never seen. Even now, after a month of handling it, learning it, using it, it is a marvel of technology.

Of course, John Bates and Hex Prichard discover that they have much in common.

_(Heart slows. Breath stills. Eyes focus.)_

The telescopic sight that the British have retrieved from a dead German sniper is of a quality they have never seen before. Bates has never used one, since the glint of the African sun reflecting off the sight and announcing his position would have meant an early death in the Boer campaign.

Bates' eyes are marvelous, but this sight is magical. They spend a fortnight with many men: testing it, calibrating it, adjusting it, and then it is taken apart, its components to be analysed and assayed, reconstructed, resurrected. Of particular importance is its anti-reflective coating. The blasted clever Hun, creating such a precisely perfect device.

* * *

Bates wakes at Manchester. As the train rumbles towards Harrogate, his mind busies itself with other things. A return to Downton, his home now– the idea soothes him, worries him. She has not written.

He wonders why. Has he hurt her? Has she finally taken the advice he had been giving for years?

_(Find a better man. Try not to miss me; it'll be good practice.)_

'Oh God,' he implores, 'Not now.' For Bates remembers her, the smell of her, the feel of her hair, kinked from being plaited and put up. He feels young again with her. Able to cope with her youth. For 45-odd years he's lived in the world, had women before, had a wife _(if you could call Vera that)_ but never loved a woman until Anna. And before love, knew nothing of love. He recalls the near heart-stopping tenderness that filled him, fills him again when he thinks of how he held her in his arms and made her his own. His hesitation, her determination.

_(Heart races. Breath quickens. Eyes lose focus.)_

And how he longs to be with her again. To never leave her side. Once the war is over, he vows, he never will. If she'll still have him.

He's written letters to people, friends of past acquaintances. The word is out. John Bates is looking for his wife.

Little does he know that in a scant three hours, he's going to find her.

* * *

_A/N: Yes, I'm sorry: I have liberally bastardised history to suit my story. Hex Prichard was a real person and was involved in such ventures, but not 'til later. And I don't think the British ever did succeed in capturing a German scope in WW1, but I very much like the idea that they had._

_Your reviews have been so kind. Thanks so much for continuing to read!_


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